


the parting glass

by flysafepapi



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Songfic, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:21:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flysafepapi/pseuds/flysafepapi
Summary: But as it falls unto my lotThat I must go and you must not*I turned a party song into angst. I had to though.*
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	the parting glass

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags and proceed at your own risk.

Of all the money that e'er I had  
I've spent it in good company  
And all the harm that ever I done  
Alas it was to none but me

Tommy writes the letter himself. The pencil in his fingers shakes, trembling with the movements of his hands, smeared in blood and dirt so thick that he forgets what colour it used to be. Maybe green, he thinks he remembers the light green. It should be from him, he says, before he squashes himself into a corner of the drafty tent and stares blankly down at the paper, wondering if there were even enough words in the world to explain that a husband and a father wouldn’t be coming home. The usual sound of the army camp fades away, replaced by the memory of laboured breathing echoing in his ears while big eyes looked up at him full of shock and fear, fingers clamping around his wrist hard as Danny made him promise that Rosie would hear it from him. “Promise me, Tommy. Tell her, for me. But tell her it was quick.” He doesn’t cry, but tears burn in the corners of his eyes as he puts the pencil to paper and tells Rosie the bitter lies. He knows that she’ll see right through them. John and Arthur sit in the opposite corner, lukewarm tin cups of tea in their hands, staring blankly at nothing, saying nothing. Every bit of air in the small tent feels heavy with rage and grief, at the loss of a man taken fighting someone else’s war. At the loss of a soldier. A friend. 

For all I've done for want of wit  
To memory now I can't recall  
So fill to me the parting glass  
Good night and joy be with you all

“Tommy-”  
“No, I need to get-”  
“There’s nothing you can do. Stop.”  
He shakes the hands off him, frantic, and drops to his knees right there in the mud. It seeps through the fabric of his uniform immediately, but he doesn’t notice. All his focus is on the two figures in front of him, or what’s left of them. Torn apart by bullets, they barely resemble anything human anymore, but he’d recognise them anywhere. He can’t do anything but reach for them, shaking them as if they’re going to gasp air back into broken lungs and stand up unscathed. His brothers, taken from him in one sweep. Their mingled blood stains his hands, and he doesn’t remember making a sound but his throat suddenly burns like he’s been screaming. Maybe he has. Everything in the background has faded to a dull buzz. He reaches out and gently eases John’s eyes shut before doing the same thing to Arthur, and for the first time in a long time he bows his head and prays. John, always rash, always acting before he thought, taking the bullets meant for Arthur without a spare thought for the danger he was putting himself in. Arthur, who had refused to leave his younger brother alone and ended up dying anyway. This time, the tears run down his face, cutting paths through the dirt that coats his face. 

Oh, all the comrades that e'er I had  
They're sorry for my going away  
And of all the sweethearts that e'er I had  
They'd wish me one more day to stay

When Tommy looks around to the men that fight at his side, he barely recognises the faces. So many have died and been replaced that he doesn’t bother getting any closer to them than he has to. Freddie remains, and Barney and Jeremiah, but every other figure is a stranger. He can’t decide if he prefers it that way or not. Is it any better, if the men dying around you are unknown? He almost, almost, laughs when the tunnel caves one morning. At least, he thinks it’s morning. It’s impossible to tell when you’re under the earth, surrounded by darkness illuminated only by flickering lamps. The shouts echo along the narrow tunnel, yells for help coming from the direction that he’s sure he saw Freddie go an indeterminable time ago, and rocks and discarded tools scrape along his knees when he drops beside a man frantically digging with his hands, to free the trapped. It’s an exercise in futility; the rain has turned the earth to thick mud and for every handful they manage to clear, another slides into its place like a never-ending task. Through the sounds of exertion from the men beside him, trying to clear the passage, he can hear the faint sounds of the trapped men calling out. He should have known, when he hadn’t seen Freddie, that he’s somewhere behind the mountain of mud, but when he hears that familiar voice the realisation hits him like a lightning bolt to the chest. He stops digging. It’s not going to work, and even if it was, he’d be no help like this. He rests his head against the barrier between him and Freddie, and even though he knows that Freddie won’t be able to hear him, he says “I’m sorry, Freddie. I’m so sorry.” 

But as it falls unto my lot  
That I must go and you must not  
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call  
Good night and joy be with you all

“They’re in a better place,” Jeremiah says, later, when he’s out of the tunnels and sitting in one of the mess halls, nursing a cup of whiskey in his hands. “There’s no fight for them, not anymore.” Tommy doesn’t look up. There’s no point. He feels hollowed out, like something has ripped out everything that used to be inside of him, and no amount of platitudes or comforting words are going to soothe it. Anywhere would be better than here, but that’s not the point. They shouldn’t have had to be here. None of this should have happened. Beside him, Barney fidgets and nods, but Tommy doesn’t look at him either. He pushes his chair back, not hungry, and leaves the full tray of food sitting on the table. “I’m going for a walk.” He leaves before either Barney or Jeremiah can stop him, or say anything, and wanders along the rows and rows of tents towards his own. The one that he used to share with Freddie, and Arthur, and John. When he sinks down onto his cot, he imagines that he can see them, sitting around the tent and joking with each other like they used to. If he listens hard enough, he thinks that he can hear John’s humming again, snatches of songs floating in the air, or Freddie’s constant tapping, or Arthur murmuring to himself as his pencil scratches along in his sketchbook. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, into the still air, as if they can hear him. Maybe they can. He doesn’t know what happens after death. Maybe they’re around him right now, watching, looking over him. “I tried.” This time, no tears fell. There’s nothing left in him, he figures, when his eyes remain dry even though they burn. When he slides the hard, unyielding metal of the muzzle into his mouth, pressing heavy against his tongue, it almost feels like a sort of salvation. ‘I’m coming,’ he thinks, resting his finger on the trigger and taking a deep breath. ‘Wait for me. I’m on my way.’


End file.
